“Lord, no! Light comedy is what we want; light comedy to the verge of farce.”
“Mr. Wakefield, I do not appreciate jokes in regard to my work.”
Here Raven intervened with, “You are so extreme, my dear Raymond. After all, Cellini was a great artist, and in my conception——”
“Look here, Raven,” said Wakefield, running his fingers through his pinky-yellow hair, “you’ll have to stop away from rehearsals if you can’t shake those absurd ideas from your brain. The Cellini I want, and mean to have, is the man who had liaisons with his models, committed murders, and yet was an artist malgré lui. You see what I mean?” He fired the query at Eliphalet. “You’ve read the biography, of course?”
“I have little leisure for reading,” replied the actor, feeling a trifle dazed.
“You must do so at once, then. Come on, and I’ll go over some passages with you now at the Savage. Reynolds, take the crowd scenes—we’ll be back by two.” And he gripped Eliphalet to whisk him away.
But Eliphalet Cardomay would not allow himself to be hustled.
“Mr. Wakefield,” he said, “I have eight days in which to study a long and important role. I do not choose to squander any of these precious hours in profitless discussion. Let us proceed to rehearse at once.”
This was mutiny—rank mutiny. It is doubtful whether the great Sir Owen Frazer, at present seated at the back of the stalls, would have presumed to say as much.
Raymond Wakefield’s cherubic face went into a series of straight lines. He had never before been openly defied and his sense of humour deserted him. It deserted him for eight consecutive days, during which time he gave Eliphalet Cardomay every kind of hell. Unmindful of the very characteristics which had prompted him to make the engagement, he caught up every stereotyped inflexion, each elaborate gesture, and subjected it to the most rigorous criticism, analysis and correction. In justice it should be admitted that, according to modern standards, there was a very sound reason for all his suggestions. Raymond Wakefield was never at a loss for reasons. He kept up a running fire of interrogation as to what Eliphalet was driving at, and Eliphalet never could answer.